


Pearls That Were His Eyes

by Walutahanga



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Shapeshifters, Bisexual Male Character, Cultural Differences, F/M, Gay Sex, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Kitsune, M/M, Open Relationships, Past Violence, Selkies, Sex, Werecats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:14:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21885787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Walutahanga/pseuds/Walutahanga
Summary: Eames wishes Cobb hadn't brought a selkie onto the Inception job. It's a risky decision in an already dangerous situation and he's going to regret going along with it - even more than he knows.
Relationships: Ariadne/Arthur (Inception), Ariadne/Arthur/Eames (Inception), Ariadne/Eames (Inception), Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 82





	Pearls That Were His Eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Where Witness None](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4360883) by [Walutahanga](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Walutahanga/pseuds/Walutahanga). 



> This is a remix of another fic of mine "Where Witness None", told from the perspective of Eames. 
> 
> It won't make much sense without reading the first one. Basically the whole crew (with the possible exception of Yusuf and Saito) are shapeshifters of some stripe. Their nature is not public knowledge and the desire for secrecy means there are are strong taboos on discussing it in public. Each race has its own unique, extremely private culture and may or may not be aware of the particulars of others. 
> 
> Ariadne is a selkie, Cobb is a merman, Eames is a kitsune, and Arthur is a type of werecat.
> 
> Oh, and if violence involving sharks is a trigger for you, there is some discussion of it between characters. It's not graphic, but I figured I should place a warning here, since I wasn't sure how to tag for it.

Eames knows immediately what Ariadne is. He’s lived a very long life and has forgotten more about other supernaturals than they know about themselves. 

So it's an unpleasant surprise to walk into the warehouse and breathe in that familiar briny scent. He spots her standing behind a table of scattered plans, clutching a clipboard to her chest as if she's trying to hide. Like most of her kind she's small, dark-haired and just curvy enough to make a delicious mouthful.

Eames pretends not to see her and sweeps in on Arthur, who pretends to be annoyed as he always does. 

"Who's the girl?" Eames asks, scenting Arthur's neck. 

"Architect. Cobb vouched for her." 

"Does he know what she is?" 

"I didn't ask." Arthur nips Eames' ear and smoothly stalks out of reach, all indignant feline. As he'd been royally pissed off the last time Eames _didn't_ scent him, Eames doesn't quite understand these little shows of hostility unless they're Arthur's way of flirting. Must be a cat thing. There's always a gap in understanding between races, things that don't quite translate. You either learn to roll with it, or you don't. 

He turns his attention on the girl, who blinks as he descends on her. Right now, he's pushing the boundaries of propriety, but not so far it can't be blamed on cultural miscommunication. 

"You must be our architect," he says. "Hold still and let me look at you." He slips his hands about her little waist and before she can protest, presses his nose under her ear and takes a deep breath.

Damn. He wasn't mistaken.

The selkie’s little body is tensed for a second, then her nose nudges shyly under his ear in reciprocation. One polite sniff, then she abruptly sneezes. He gives a laugh he doesn't feel as he pats her cheek. 

"Aren't you precious."

* * *

"Ariadne's solid," Cobb says later in his office. "She's committed to the job." 

"She knows what she's getting into?" Eames flicks a lighter on and off with one hand, mostly to annoy Cobb by playing with an open flame near the scattered plans. Once up on a time that would have made him sigh and peevishly ask Eames to take it outside. Now, no reaction. 

"She knows." 

"Because this is a dangerous world, and not everyone can defend themselves like we can." 

"You're saying women can't defend themselves?"

"Don't be obtuse. It's not her gender I'm worried about, it's the fact she can't rip the throat out of anyone who tries to hurt her." 

"Clearly you've never been in the water with a selkie." 

Eames pauses in the act of flipping his lighter shut, surprised by Cobb's saying the word out loud. True, they're alone in the office, but the door is open and Eames isn't certain if Saito has gone home for the day. 

"Be that as it may," he says after a moment. "Her talents don't lend her to a swift response. If things go wrong, she'll be a liability." 

"If things go right, there won't be any violence." 

"Let me put it another way then. If things do go to shit, it'll be her back I'm watching, not yours. Clear?"

Cobb shrugs. "Suit yourself. In fact, that might be for the best." He picks up a sheaf of paper. "Was there anything else?" 

Eames studies Cobb's back, trying to decipher his odd behaviour. Using a green architect is doable if risky, but Cobb's not even making a cursory attempt to justify it. He's doing everything he can to shut down the conversation as if Ariadne is the last thing he wants to talk about. 

"A little young for you, isn't she," Eames says, taking a shot in the dark. The back of Cobb's neck turns red and Eames smells embarrassment, anger and guilt. He laughs, a little meanly. "Don't worry, I won't tell. But you may want to try being less of a cliché." 

"I'm not sleeping with her." 

"Oh? Then you won't mind if I try my hand." 

More guilt, sharp and tangy. "Stay away from her," Cobb says roughly. 

"Why? If you're not sleeping with her, she's fair game." 

Frustration, anger. My, my, Cobb really doesn't want Eames moving in on his little girlfriend. 

"I thought you'd be busy with Arthur," Cobb says waspishly. 

"I can multi-task." Eames snaps his lighter shut and straightens, plans for the next few weeks settling into place. Irritating Cobb, even on an important job, is better than dealing with this bland, disconnected version of him.

* * *

Eames steps up a notch in his flirting with Ariadne and pretends not to smile when Cobb starts grinding his teeth. Ariadne doesn't react much, barely even looking up from her work to acknowledge him, but Eames notices that more often or not she seeks out his or Arthur's work stations, so plainly she can't be too displeased by what he's doing.

After working with her for a few days, he decides that Cobb is definitely not sleeping with her, nor ever likely to. Because whatever Cobb's feelings on the matter are, Ariadne _hates_ Cobb.

She hides it well, but her hands start shaking whenever he comes close and her scent becomes clouded with anger and revulsion. Eames is fairly certain no one else has picked up on the full extent because he has the most sensitive nose, but he finds it gobsmacking that Cobb seems so completely oblivious. Even a scent-blind human wouldn't have failed to miss how stiffly she holds herself when he talks to her or how she edges away from him when he leans over her shoulder to check her work.

Perhaps she's only in it for the dream. One doesn't have to love the teacher to enjoy the lesson. She's the first one to arrive in the mornings, and the last to leave at night. Eames doesn't think he's seen her take a single break without Cobb telling her to. She impresses even Arthur whose perfectionism has driven lesser mortals to murder (and no, Eames does not mean that as a metaphor). 

"Come on, love," Eames says after a particularly exhausting day. It's nine at night and Cobb's been driving them mad for hours. "Lets go get a drink. You look like you could use it."

"I can't," she says, still bent over her work. "It has to be perfect." She sounds like she's on the verge of tears. 

"It won't be if you drive yourself crazy trying to fix every detail. Trust me." 

"Trust you?" She laughs; a high thin sound as her fingers clench absently in her hair, pulling as if she wants to tear it right out of her head. "Sorry. It's a bad joke I heard recently. A really bad, terrible joke." 

"Ariadne has to stay back," Cobb calls from the other office. "I need her to go over the first level again." 

Eames starts to tell him what he really thinks of him, and stops when Arthur stands up. He goes into the next office and talks to Cobb, so quietly Eames only hears a faint murmur "... running everyone ragged like this..." Ariadne still hasn't stopped working, sketching more figures like it would physically pain her to stop. 

"Ariadne," Cobb calls out. "You can go. I won't need you again tonight." Another murmur from Arthur. "And...don't come in until ten tomorrow. Yusuf and I can manage without you." 

Ariadne drops her pencil. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, lets it out. Eames drapes her coat about her shoulders.

"Come on, love. Time for that drink."

* * *

At the bar, Ariadne orders three shots and downs them in quick succession. 

"I said _a_ drink," Eames says, amused. "As in one." 

"I needed it," Ariadne says. Her body language has relaxed somewhat outside the warehouse. She no longer is wound so tight and the alcohol has loosened her further. "Don't feel you need to keep up. I can call a taxi." 

"Challenge accepted. Consider our future appointment confirmed." He orders himself one shot and a beer. "For now, however, I must cede the victory to you." 

Arthur orders some European beer of a brand Eames can't pronounce despite speaking twelve languages and slides into the booth. One hand settles on Eames' knee, fingers tightening and relaxing absently like he's forgotten he currently has no claws to knead. Ariadne looks at them curiously.

"Are you two together?" She says, then seems to regret asking the question. "You know what, nevermind. That was rude. Forget I asked." 

"No offence intended or taken," Eames says. "And to answer your question, sometimes." 

"My people don't settle unless kids are involved," Arthur says more bluntly. 

"They are frightfully practical," Eames agrees. "Entirely unromantic about entanglements, but dead-set honourable about duty. You'll never catch one of Arthur's people trying to welch on alimony payments." 

He can see the question forming in Ariadne's face, but like a well-brought up supernatural, she holds it back. One never enquires directly about another race; one invites confidences and does not press if rejected.

"That's not really an issue with mine," she says instead. "Seeing as wives generally buy our husbands." 

Arthur gives her a closer look. “How does that work?” 

"Very small male to female birth ratio. One man born to every ten women." She traces the rim of a shotglass, her expression distant and sad. "Sisters and cousins form pods; sometimes friends if they’re particularly close. The pod then negotiates for a husband from another clan and pays a dowry for him." 

"Does he get any say?" 

"Ideally, yes. But mothers traditionally negotiate on behalf of their sons, and that sometimes causes problems, if they misunderstand either side’s wishes. Or if they deliberately misrepresent them. I had a cousin who didn’t like women that way. My aunt kept trying to arrange a pod-marriage until he ran away.” 

Ah yes, the politics of pack-culture. Exactly what Eames doesn't enjoy. "Charming." 

"She regrets it now. She was angry at the time, but with gay rights and everything, she came round." 

“Are you in a pod?” Arthur asks, learning forward. Ariadne doesn’t seem to notice, still playing with the shot glass.

“No. I had an offer but I wanted to study abroad.” She smiles thinly, as if at some private joke. “My mother did say I’d regret turning it down.”

Eames wonders why she’s here, doing this kind of job. Perhaps she is that rare exception: a pack-born that doesn’t fit into the pack. That’s a hard road to walk. Harder than it is for solitaries. At least no one ever tried to make a solitary something they’re not.

* * *

“Do you like her?” Arthur gasps later in Eames’ hotel room. He’s on top this time, and Eames is gripping the headboard, thighs wrapped around Arthur’s bony hips.

“Like who?” Eames says, just to be obtuse.

“Ariadne.” Arthur nips him, not stopping what he’s doing. “Do you like her?”

“Define ‘like’. I think she’s nice enough, yes.”

“Do you want to fuck her?”

It’s a real question, and Eames hums thoughtfully in his throat. With a roll of his hips, he switches their positions. Arthur makes an irritated growl, but Eames pins his hands so he can’t scratch.

“I’d like very much to fuck her,” Eames says, starting a slow rhythm. “Unfortunately it’s not going to happen. For either of us.”

Arthur bares his teeth. “Watch me.”

“I’m serious. Her kind are bad news if they think you’ve hurt their sister in some way. Even the exiled ones.”

“Then why have you been chasing after her?”

“To annoy Cobb. And because I need her to trust me if things go wrong.”

Arthur stops trying to writhe against Eames’ hold, frowning.

“Explain this to me,” he says, the words an order. Eames sighs and eases back, letting Arthur sit up. He can never understand how Arthur can switch so utterly between sex and survival. Eames has come up with some of his best plans while pounding away on some moaning, appreciative partner.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of a selkie.”

Arthur blinks thoughtfully. “I thought selkies weren’t a big deal. Completely helpless if you take their–”

Eames slaps a hand over Arthur’s mouth. “Don’t say it. Don’t even think it. And if you ask her about it, don’t be surprised if you wake up with your nuts nailed to a wall.”

Arthur glares until Eames removes his hand. “So the stories are wrong. Selkies aren’t helpless.” 

“Not entirely. They are a cripplingly vulnerable race, I’ll give you that. But that just makes them meaner. I’d rather be on a lyco’s shit-list than a selkie’s.”

“For example?”

“For example…” Eames scratches the sweaty hair at the back of his neck. “There was this pack-leader a while back. Maybe about seventy years ago or so? She hired me to find a human that had stolen her daughter’s skin. Stupid bastard thought he was living a fairy-tale.”

Eames’ sympathy is thin at best. Maybe the guy hadn’t intended harm, hadn’t thought of himself as a kidnapper or a rapist, but if you lived with a woman day in, day out, then at some point you had to have noticed the muted terror in her eyes.

“I found the skin, took the girl back to her mother, brought the thief along too. The pack-leader was impressed with my work, even paid me extra and invited me along to watch the execution.”

Arthur looks interested. “What did they do?”

“They took him out on a boat at night. It was along the coast during summer. Warm water, low current, not too far from shore. You could have swum it – if it weren’t for the sharks.”

Eames can still remember the salty air, the slap of dark waves against the side of the boat, the hair-raising vulnerability of being on the ocean miles from anywhere. He’d been an honoured guest and it still hadn’t been a comfortable sensation.

“If he made it to shore, he was a free man. No further reprisals. Just a scary story to repeat to his friends.”

“Did he make it?”

Eames winces. “He’d had sex with her under compulsion. So they put chum in the water first.”

Arthur considers that, tongue tucked in his cheek thoughtfully. Probably taking notes, the sick bastard, Eames thinks fondly. Arthur’s kind are interested in anything that might prolong their own survival, including how to build a reputation. 

“The sharks are the selkies’ worst form of execution,” Eames continues. “Reserved only for skin-thieves. Lesser crimes have lesser punishments. Strike a selkie and they’ll break your hand. Kill one and you lose the hand.” 

Arthur’s nose scrunches up. “Why is skin-stealing worse than murder?”

Eames shrugged. “Skin-stealing is more common, I guess. And the victims usually kill themselves anyway, so it generally amounts to the same thing.” He settles back on the pillows, folding his hands across his belly to contemplate the ceiling. “You can see why I’d prefer not to piss off Ariadne’s people if I can avoid it. Getting one of them killed – even accidentally – will not end well for us.” 

“I see your point.” Arthur is silent for a beat, then adds: “I’m still going to fuck her.” 

“Arthur.” 

“You said they’d be angry if we hurt her. I’m not going to hurt her." 

Eames heaves an annoyed breath. He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised. About the only area where Arthur’s people occasionally let their desires overtake their intelligence was sex. Eames being a case in point.

“Be very, _very_ certain of her signals,” he says. “Assume nothing and _articulate_ your intentions, even if you think you’re both on the same page. And if her family tells you to piss off, don’t argue. Just piss off.”

Arthur’s eyebrows dip in irritation. “I’ve done this before.”

“Not with pack-born you haven’t.” Which was half Arthur’s problem. He was too used to dealing with solitaries. “Just do me a favour and don’t knock her up.”

Arthur growls and knocks his knee against Eames’. Eames knocks him back and that devolves into them rolling around on the bed trying to pin each other, then to sex again. As Eames languorously digs his nails into Arthur’s back while Arthur growls against his neck, all thoughts of selkies dissolve under more immediate affairs.

* * *

Fortunately or unfortunately, there’s little time for courting. Their deadline shifts and everyone suddenly has a lot less time for anything. Cobb becomes even more demanding, to the point that Eames would have walked if it weren’t for Arthur and the promised pay-off.

Cobb has developed dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep. Mild-tempered Yusuf gets frustrated enough to throw a stapler against a wall, making Ariadne flinch. Even Arthur who rarely disdains to show something as weak as ‘stress’ is feeling the pressure. Some nights they don’t even go home, working late and crashing on the bed-rolls before getting up and starting over again.

The first time this happens, Eames is mildly surprised by Ariadne setting up her bedroll next to him and Arthur.

“Is this okay?” She asks, noticing his look.

“I thought you’d want your own space,” he says, which is a delicate way of hinting that he and Arthur want their own space.

She doesn’t seem to catch on. “I don’t mind. My sisters and I used to do this, crashing after a swim.” She sounds faintly wistful.

Eames starts to warn her that associating platonic safety with two unknown solitaries is an incredibly dangerous idea. But Arthur throws a pillow at him and turns to Ariadne with a warm smile. “Would you like the space by the door?” He says, like the charming bastard he can be when he can be bothered to put the effort in.

Ariadne decides she prefers the space against the wall, on the other side of the room. Another dangerous move; putting them between her and the exit. Someone should probably talk to her about that too. Not everyone knows the reputation of selkies or are as picky about consent as Arthur and Eames are.

Eames mentally files it away for later. Maybe once the job is done, he’ll put on a female face and take her aside for a quick word, woman-to-woman. For now there’s no point in upsetting the apple-cart.

He grows used to hearing her or Arthur creep in during the night. If it’s been a productive day Arthur will curl up against Eames’ back; a warm line of heat in the dark. If it’s been non-productive, he’ll bed himself down in the corner, shoulders stiff and daring anyone to approach him.

Once, Eames wakes to Ariadne crying; the soft hitched breathing of someone not trying to be heard. He’s unsympathetic; if she can’t hack it out here in the real world, she should go home to her clan.

Arthur slips out of his blankets, a near-silent shadow, and steals over to Ariadne, soft footed in the dark. There’s some murmuring, then the shifting of blankets and bodies. Unable to resist, Eames looks up, half-expecting to see them caught some passionate embrace. Instead, Ariadne’s face is buried in Arthur’s neck, her shoulders shaking. He’s holding her very gently, combing his fingers through her hair.

“Would you like to talk about it?” Eames hears him whisper.

“No. I can’t. Not now.” 

“Okay. Okay.” Arthur starts rumbling in his chest – that deep contented sound he insists isn’t a purr, but absolutely is. Since the two of them don’t seem likely to have sex any time soon, Eames lets himself drift off to sleep. 

* * *

One night Eames wakes, not certain what’s woken him. The room is dark. Arthur is a warm solid presence against his back. Ariadne is curled up by the far wall in her sleeping bag, visible only by her dark curls and the pale curve of a cheek. Everything seems fine, but something is off.

Eames pretends to shift in his sleep, one hand sliding beneath the mattress to curl around the gun he keeps hidden there. From this new position he can see the doorway through his lashes and he immediately recognises the figure standing there.

Cobb has something in his hand – his token? – and is rolling it between his fingers as he watches Ariadne sleep. Unaware he’s being observed, all the cracks are showing. He’s pale and unshaven, smelling of salt and whiskey. His tongue darts out and wets his lips in a nervous gesture the old Cobb would never have made.

Eames doesn’t do anything until Cobb takes a hesitant step over the threshold. Then he speaks up:

“Not your best idea.”

Cobb jumps as if he’d been shot. He stares at Eames wildly, then turns sharply on his heel and flees the room. Eames rolls over and goes back to sleep.

* * *

Cobb doesn’t address his little misdemeanor and with unusual tact Eames leaves it alone. Frankly, if it weren’t for the fact that Ariadne a) is a selkie and b) hates Cobb with the fire of a thousand suns, he’d think it was a good idea. Cobb needs something to pull him out of his head and if a salacious affair with a woman half his age will do the trick, more power to him.

Thankfully the prep is winding up to a close and they can soon be rid of their problematic little architect.

Or so Eames thinks. 

On their last day, he walks in on an intense argument between Ariadne and Cobb. Eames says ‘argument’ because even though neither of them are yelling, there’s a fraught tension in their intense low-voiced conversation that indicates nothing good. Cobb looks haggard and Ariadne furious. Both of them shut up as he walks in.

Normally Eames would pry – Eames has always been too curious for his own good – but the news he has is too urgent. “Maurice Fisher just died in Sydney.”

Cobb drags his gaze away from Ariadne. “When’s the funeral?”

“Thursday in Los Angeles. Robert should accompany the body no later than Tuesday. We should move.”

“Right.” Cobb’s gaze drifts uneasily back to Ariadne. Eames watches, puzzled and a little intrigued. What _were_ they talking about that has Cobb so distracted?

Unfortunately they don’t seem inclined to talk about it in front of him. Cobb clears his throat and says: “Get us another seat on the plane.”

_Oh hell, no._

“Cobb, I need a word in your office.”

“Not right now.”

“ _Yes_ now.”

Cobb seems to catch the unvoiced threat that if he doesn’t go he’ll be dragged, because he stands up and follows Eames into the office. Eames shuts the door.

“Cobb, we’re not taking her with us.”

“Yes we are.” Cobb isn’t even looking at him, just fiddling with his damn token. Eames is tempted to chuck it out a window, taboos be damned.

“It was one thing to use her to design the dream. This is an insanely pointless risk. We don’t need her there.”

“She could be useful.”

“Or she could be a goddamn liability. You don’t take a green architect in the field on this kind of job.” Eames growls between his teeth. “Do you have _any_ idea what her clan will do to us if we get her killed? Or any clan in general? Don’t think they won’t spread the word.”

“It will be fine.”

“Cobb– ”

“It will be _fine_. Trust me.”

(It's not fine.)

* * *

As they crowd around Saito’s unconscious body, trying to decide their next move, Eames ignores Ariadne. He’s more than a little pissed off at her. He’d tried to get her to stay behind, but she’d insisted on coming. Now she’s just one more thing to worry about; another useless burden that could get them all killed in horrific ways.

“Something funny, Ariadne?” Arthur says in that warning voice that says you should stop what you’re doing right the fuck now. He has exactly zero sense of humour where survival is concerned.

“Oh no,” Ariadne says, sounding like she’s trying to contain giggles. “Just thinking about karma.”

Eames rolls his eyes. Everyone reacts differently to stress, but he’d thought Ariadne is made of stronger stuff than this. If she goes hysterical, he’s going to decide it’s worth the broken hand to slap her out of it.

Cobb seems to be thinking along the same lines because he snaps: “Shut up, Ariadne.”

Ariadne shuts up. Thank Christ. Now they can –

There’s a very faint gagging sound. Eames looks over to see Ariadne has gone rigid. Her mouth is open, her dark eyes wide and unseeing as her face turns a mottled red.

“Ariadne?” Arthur says in a different tone. “Ariadne what’s wrong?”

He reaches for her and Ariadne lurches backward, crashing into a lawn-chair. Arthur lunges barely in time to stop her hitting the concrete head first.

“Ariadne, show me where you’re hurt!” He says, loud and frantic. “Ariadne!”

Fuck, Eames thinks. Someone has to say it. “She can’t breathe. Someone’s choking her up above.”

“You can’t be sure of that,” Arthur snaps as he rolls Ariadne over onto her back, ignoring how her body arcs, clutching for air that won’t come. There’s an uncharacteristic panic in the way he shoves his fingers into her mouth (not smart; he could lose those doing that) to check for obstructions.

“Leave it,” Eames tells him bluntly. “We’re fucked. We made a good try and we lost.” 

At least they won’t have to worry about Ariadne’s family taking their revenge. They’ll all be dead in a few minutes anyway. He wonders if he should kill Arthur and then himself, to buy the illusion of time in limbo…

“Ariadne, I take it back,” Cobb says suddenly. “You don’t have to be quiet.” 

And just like that, Ariadne is taking full breaths, sucking down air like someone surfacing after a deep dive.

Arthur’s shoulder’s slump in relief. “It’s okay,” he says soothingly, stroking her back as she moans. “Just relax, you’re okay…”

There’s a distant ringing in Eames’ ears. He can't tear his eyes from Cobb, who's staring straight ahead, avoiding his gaze. 

It might not be the same, he thinks. It could be a coincidence. Cobb could have just been trying to apologise for an earlier fight and the timing made it look like something it wasn't. Cobb couldn’t have done what Eames is thinking – he’s from the _sea_ , he knows what a selkie is, what that kind of violation means. He _wouldn’t_ –

(Eames recognises, in a detached kind of way, the scrabbling efforts of the mind to stave off reality just a little longer.)

“Just let me die, you bastard!” Ariadne spits suddenly, lurching from Arthur’s lap like she’d scratch out Cobb’s eyes. “I’d rather take Limbo than obey another one of your fucking orders!” Only Arthur’s arm about her waist stops her from toppling over.

“Orders?” Eames says, giving Cobb one last chance to explain himself. 

When Cobb says nothing, Yusuf speaks up tentatively: “She’s a selkie. Cobb has her skin.” 

* * *

A little history here: there was a reason that Eames took the selkie job, even though it was a little outside his usual purview. 

Not because the grandmother offered three times his normal going rate, or because the mother cried as she explained the situation. He’d looked at the wedding photo, of the dark-haired girl with the bright smile and terrified eyes, and all he could see was himself two centuries ago.

You learned, at the wrong end of a leash, to keep the person holding it happy. It wasn’t enough to submit. You had to convince them that you were content with your position. You learned words to deflect and placate. You learned to bend and simper and cry at the right moments. 

The most terrifying part was that eventually you forgot you were pretending.

No one knows. All the people involved with that hellish period of Eames’ life were long dead and buried. Most of them at his hands. Afterwards he’d washed the grave dirt and blood off his hands, changed his face, and started yet another identity. One a little meaner and a little more cautious about who they trusted. He’d been through dozens of faces and identities since then.

He hadn’t realised, until he was looking down at Ariadne’s blotchy, tear-streaked face, just how deeply he’d buried it. To forget what that terror looked like.


End file.
